


Men to the Moon and Rockets to Russia

by robotboy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Professors, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe not entirely an AU?, McCarthyism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-18 20:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: ‘Fell?’ the man asks. ‘Doesn’t suit you.’





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU based on a dream by fiertedubearn, who made these edits:  
  

> 
> Content warnings: Crowley has PTSD, is a WWII veteran, and was punished for same-sex relations in the army. The characters briefly discuss intimate partner violence and police brutality. Crowley drives while drunk between chapters. There are graphic descriptions of broken bones and sutures, and characters experience memory loss.

It’s raining when they first meet.

A drizzle has set in since sundown, making the cobblestone walk between Professor Fell’s office and his house a treacherous journey. He turns his collar up and ducks under the awnings of the buildings, a longer route but a drier one.

One of the grand halls on campus is lit up, a low hubbub from within suggesting some kind of party. It’s late: Fell had been generous in helping panicked students navigate Proust before their midterms. Some other faculty, probably one of the better-funded ones, is enjoying fine wine and Edwardian fixtures.

Except for one of them. A figure stumbles out a side door, twenty feet ahead of Fell. He looks worse for wear, barely staying upright on pencil-thin legs. Fell quickens his pace, unsure if he plans to hurry by or offer a hand. As he nears the drunken man he hears muttering, a string of expletives spat at the party inside.

Fell realises with a start that he recognises the man: he teaches in the same room after Fell’s Tuesday class, always laconically forgiving when Fell loses track of time in a lecture. Apart from the legs, there’s the distinctive red hair and, oddly, the same dark glasses he wears during the day.

The man snarls and punches the wall.

‘Oh!’ Fell exclaims. The man notices him, and Fell stammers: ‘Are you alright?’

The man’s eyebrows suggest that this is the stupidest question he’s ever been asked—which would be impressive, given he has undergraduates too.

‘Fine,’ he hisses. ‘Perfectly fucking _dandy.’_

‘I can see that,’ Fell looks pointedly where the man is flexing his fingers, the knuckles ripped open by the brick. ‘Never been partial to those sort of parties myself.’

The man’s upper lip contorts into the most sardonic smile Fell has ever seen.

‘What faculty?’ Fell asks. If this conversation ends as soon as this fellow would like it to, Tuesdays are going to become painfully awkward.

‘Astrophysics,’ he spits. ‘And the rich fuckers who pay us to land the rocket on the wrong planet.’

‘The rich…?’ Fell repeats.

‘Military,’ he sneers. ‘Men to the moon and rockets to Russia.’

‘I see,’ Fell grimaces as patriotically as he can. ‘Hardly appealing?’

‘Not the kind of ass-kissing I like to do,’ the man raises an eyebrow, so Fell can’t miss the connotation. He’s suddenly thankful for how gloomy it is out here.

Astrophysics. Fell supposes if he were to imagine the kind of scholar who talked about black holes and chaos theory, this might be him.

He takes a fortifying breath, smoothing down his lapels. ‘I’m Professor Fell.’

_‘Fell?’_ the man asks. ‘Doesn’t suit you.’

He delivers it with the same sour candour as everything, so Fell snaps back: ‘Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you.’

The man laughs, a sharp _‘Ha!’ _followed by a loose and genuine grin.

‘Like it or not, it’s Professor Fell,’ he tells the man. ‘I teach—’

‘Literature. Nineteenth-century, mostly, American and European. Soft spot for Whitman.’

Fell’s jaw drops. ‘How did you—?’

‘You never clean the blackboard,’ he says, corner of his mouth turning up.

‘Well, it’s pleasure to meet you, Professor…?’

‘Just Doctor,’ the man corrects him. ‘Doctor Crowley.’

He shakes Fell’s hand, hissing sharply when Fell brushes over the broken skin. His head jerks back before Fell can apologise.

‘You really ought to have that looked at,’ Fell suggests. His hand had been so _warm, _like the energy of the punch was still contained within it.

‘Said it was fine,’ Crowley mutters, in spite of the fact that his wrist clicks when he shakes it out.

The drizzle has become a downpour while they were talking. Fell squints out into the dark. ‘Have you far to go?’

‘Car’s up on main street,’ Crowley shrugs, not looking particularly pleased about it.

‘It’s much too wet to drive,’ Fell frowns. ‘Please: my apartment’s just across the lane. Let me patch up those knuckles.’

Crowley starts to shake his head, in a distracting movement that seems to begin at his waist.

‘I must insist,’ Fell continues. ‘At least until the rain clears.’

Crowley’s mouth scrunches, head turning away. But he doesn’t say no. Finally, he asks:

‘Have you got anything to drink in there?’


	2. Chapter 2

Fell has a good bourbon, which he sets down with two tumblers on a small table beside the armchair. Crowley is sprawled on it in such a way that it somehow amounts to an insult to the armchair, but Fell overlooks it because it makes Crowley’s legs look spectacular.

Crowley’s pouring himself a second bourbon when Fell returns with antiseptic, cotton balls, and gauze. He picks up his own tumbler—if only to make space for the medical supplies—and swallows enough to steady his hand. Next, he removes a stack of chapbooks from a stool, dragging it over to perch beside the armchair.

Crowley, still wearing his glasses, pulls an unhappy face at Fell. But he transfers the bourbon to his left hand, letting the right hang over the overstuffed arm of the chair to dangle in Fell’s direction.

Fell picks up the hand to examine it. Crowley’s finger twitches uncomfortably, but he doesn’t complain. The knuckles are split, and some have bled enough to leave sticky trains in the webbing of Crowley’s fingers. The back of the hand has started to swell with bruising, faintly purple under the skin.

Fell takes a deep breath, dipping the cotton into water. He cleans the dust and dirt from each wound, carefully wiping between Crowley’s fingers. They’re still warm, more pliable than Fell expected, shifting this way and that so Fell can clean them thoroughly. He turns Crowley’s palm up, and the tip of Crowley’s thumb rests against Fell’s hand. Fell inhales as he recognises the quick beat of Crowley’s heart through the skin, his own pulse rushing in response.

Fell gently checks Crowley’s fingers. They are long, slender to the point of being spindly. His nails have rings of dirt around the cuticles. Fell methodically takes each digit and tests the joints haven’t stiffened. He has handled broken fingers only once before: crushed under a boot, not a wall, taped together overnight—_nobody will notice, nobody will remember._ Crowley has no breaks, at least by the estimate of a literature professor. Fell moves on to the hand, where each bone and vein is visible through the skin. He traces over one, unable to resist, along the grain of the dark hair near Crowley’s wrist. There’s a bruise near the knuckles, but nothing too severe. Fell opens his mouth to comment _it’s lucky you’re so skinny, that I can find the bones easily,_ but finds there’s no air in his lungs to do so. He glances up at Crowley’s face.

Fell knows, despite the glasses, that Crowley is watching him. His expression is… surprised, Fell guesses, but not unpleasantly so.

Something else Fell is sure of, but would never mention: nobody has taken care of Crowley in a while.

‘Lucky,’ is the only word that slips out.

‘Hmm,’ Crowley stretches and clenches his fingers experimentally, a side effect of which is briefly feeling like Crowley is holding his hand. ‘Yes.’

They are still touching, while Crowley takes another sip of bourbon. His throat bobs as he swallows, head tipped back.

‘Now, I just need…’ Fell says as a warning. Crowley nods, and Fell lets out a breath of relief. He’d thought Crowley would refuse treatment before antiseptic was introduced.

The smell of iodine overpowers everything, both of them grimacing when Fell dabs it on the grazes. Crowley twitches, but doesn’t complain. When Fell cleans the split skin of his knuckles, a quiet hiss escapes. Fell glances up, but Crowley nods at him to continue.

Without blood and brick dust, the injuries look smaller, but still nasty. The grazes are jagged, and there’s so little flesh under Crowley’s skin that the knuckle bones threaten to show through the wounds. Fell is glad to wrap them in gauze, to stop Crowley looking so exposed. He lays the bandage across Crowley’s hand, covering all the knuckles and looping above his thumb. Crowley turns obediently for him. It’s almost meditative, focusing on the intuitive pattern of over-under-between. Fell works gently between fingers, brushing the vulnerable skin there. He wraps the wrist firmly, concealing the prominent tendons that strike Fell as vaguely scandalous, and will likely hurt most tomorrow.

There’s no sense cuffing Crowley’s sleeve again. Fell stops to appraise his work, soft white gauze on the tanned, angular hand.

‘Ice,’ Fell realises. ‘I didn’t get any ice.’

‘’s alright,’ Crowley’s knee swings, bumping gently into Fell’s. Fell would swear Crowley’s pants groan from the stretch. ‘I take it neat.’

‘For the _swelling,_’ Fell tuts, standing abruptly. The contact of both knee and hand are too much, right now. He must finish what he set out to do, ostensibly at least, before... before anything else that might or might not happen.

When he returns from the kitchen, Crowley has helped himself to a third bourbon. His pinkie is tapping against the glass. Fell pauses, taking him in: the man never keeps still, some joint or another always moving and twitching. He’s sinking progressively more languidly into the armchair in such a way that Fell can’t imagine how he will ever get out of it. He’s not sure he _wants_ Crowley to ever get out of it.

He really is absurdly thin, thinner than Fell’s tastes usually run. He still has the glasses on, and Fell wishes he could see those eyes. Slightly wild hair—Fell recalls it’s no better on Tuesdays when he’s teaching—and his sideburns are a bit longer than suits his face. The fashion, Fell supposes, like the well-tailored but scuffed black suit. Crowley’s red tie is loose and rumpled, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a peek of chest hair.

Fell casts his eyes to the floor—dark glasses would be useful at a moment like this. He twists the tea towel full of ice cubes and nudges the stool with his foot, until it’s facing the armchair better. Then he sits, carefully picking up Crowley’s bandaged hand and resting the compress on it. Crowley could, of course, do it himself: it would probably be more comfortable if he did. But he just sits, watching curiously—or Fell guesses curiously, those _damn_ glasses—and letting Fell coddle him.

‘Rain’s not letting up,’ Crowley speaks in a long, low murmur.

‘You probably shouldn’t drive with this bandaged up,’ Fell glances at Crowley’s hand, still cradled between his own.

‘Hmm,’ Crowley agrees.

The rain seems to roar outside, squeezing the bubble of warmth in Fell’s lounge room. It makes the air feel tense, an unbearable pressure as each of them waits to see who will suggest Crowley spends the night.

‘But I’m a reckless bastard,’ Crowley announces. He removes his hand from Fell’s, with the faintest trace of fingertips on the inside of Fell’s wrist. An unmistakable gesture, quick enough to be denied if it were unwanted. But it isn’t.

Fell draws a belated, trembling breath. But Crowley is on his feet, finishing off the third bourbon and setting his glass down with a decisive _clunk_. He holds his hand in front of his face, examining Fell’s handiwork.

‘Looks good,’ he says.

‘You’re welcome,’ Fell mutters. He moves ahead of Crowley to walk him to the door, wishing he could stall for a way to change his mind.

Crowley shrugs back into his jacket—a distractingly sinuous production—and leans on the doorframe. Like he’s the one staying, reluctant for Fell to leave.

‘Thanks for the drink,’ Crowley says, quiet and sincere.

His face is so close to Fell’s. It would be easy to lean in, to close the distance and kiss him. Fell wonders if his mouth is so red from drinking wine at the party, or if it’s naturally dark. It’s near enough that he can only smell bourbon: he would need to taste.

Crowley’s face tilts. Fell sees the slight parting of his lips, feels the warmth of breath that follows. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes, Crowley is upright, whole posture rearranged to leave no space for Fell in it.

‘Night,’ Crowley’s voice quavers, as if he hasn’t shown the temerity to imply Fell was the one to cut this short. Fell schools his expression: there is any number of good reasons for Crowley not to kiss him at this moment. Any number.

Crowley runs a hand through his own hair, which Fell expects is about to be ruined by the rain anyway.

‘See you...’ Crowley looks over his shoulder, halfway through the door. ‘What day is Whitman?’

Fell shakes his head when he realises Crowley means. ‘Tuesday?’

‘Tuesday, then,’ Crowley nods, sauntering out into the night.

Fell hopes the rain will let up.


	3. Chapter 3

Fell very deliberately, consciously, does _not _look forward to Tuesday. He is _not _eager to see the violent and quite probably unstable Dr Crowley, who like as not will be late for class anyway. He meticulously dusts the board at the end of the lecture, and tells the dawdling students to visit him during office hours if they insist on being confused about Proust.

There were no rumours around campus of a car accident on Friday night. That, at least, might be good news.

He collects his books and adjusts his tie. It’s still five minutes before Crowley’s class is scheduled to begin, and Crowley doesn’t strike him as the type to arrive early—not if he’s used to an over-eager literature professor regularly running overtime. But Fell opens the door and there, lounged against the windowsill in a pose that could be a discreet catnap, is Crowley.

His head lolls in Fell’s direction, suggesting that he is, in fact, awake.

‘Crowley,’ Fell says, and it comes out horribly breathless.

‘Fell,’ Crowley greets him. ‘Took mercy on them before the midterms?’

‘What?’ Fell frowns. ‘Oh, the students! Yes, a little more time to work on their, uh, symptomatic analyses.’

Crowley nods, lower lip jutting out like he has no idea what a symptomatic analysis is and no interest in finding out. He launches himself up from the windowsill.

‘How’s the hand?’ Fell asks, bringing his books tighter to his chest. If he doesn’t, he’s going to reach out and check.

Crowley shrugs, but holds it up for inspection. He’s re-wrapped the bandages, but judging by their greying familiarity, hasn’t replaced them. Fell gives it a stiff nod of approval, noticing again the small scratches not hidden by the gauze. He looks at Crowley’s face, no longer backlit by the window, and startles. Crowley’s mouth is still wine-dark, but now there is a split in his lip. A bruise is not quite hidden behind his glasses, in fresh blues and purples. Fell opens his mouth to ask, but a student rushes between them, and then Crowley is heading into the lecture theatre without a word goodbye.

Fell worries the pages of his books with his thumb, shifting his weight. Astrophysics students pour past him into the room like a river flowing around a rock. He turns to head down the hall, back to the Arts building, and stops. He’s expected at a departmental meeting in half an hour that will likely eat up the rest of his day.

He finds a nook in the hallway with a rather grimy bench, and sits. He spends an hour flicking through a heavily annotated translation of Dumas, glancing up at the theatre door and imagining he hears a sharp voice occasionally exclaiming something about binary stars.

At the end of an hour, young astrophysicists begin spilling out of the room. Crowley whisks out with them, and Fell has to scramble to his feet to catch up. A student trails them doggedly. Crowley hesitates for a split second to acknowledge Fell, the student has barely opened his mouth before Crowley snaps _‘In the syllabus’ _so viciously that Fell might swear Crowley spat actual venom.

The student scurries off, and Crowley still has half a snarl on his face when he gives Fell his full attention.

‘Did the wall want a rematch?’ Fell looks pointedly at Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley snorts. ‘The wall, yeah.’

Crowley’s pleasure at his joke is almost enough to drown out the burning question: _who did this to you?_

‘It really ought to be seen to,’ Fell suggests, and before Crowley can blow him off again: ‘Properly.’

Crowley turns so pale that Fell notices for the first time that he’s covered in freckles. ‘I don’t do doctors.’

A thousand more questions. Fell chooses just one:

‘How about a professor?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it: [another beautiful moodboard by fiertedubearn!](https://r0b0tb0y.tumblr.com/post/188040114417/men-to-the-moon-and-rockets-to-russia-chapter)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _them_ is mentioned in this chapter: they bear no relation to Them from Tadfield.

Fell realises much too late that there’s very little he knows about healing bruises. He offers another bundle of ice wrapped in towel to Crowley, who has settled once again in the armchair. Only when Crowley tips his head back and holds it to his temple does Fell notice the marks on his left hand.

‘Oh, _really now,’ _Fell tuts. Crowley’s eyebrow raises, moving the whole compress with it.

‘The other hand?’ Fell asks.

‘The right was all bandaged,’ Crowley explains. ‘Thanks to _you.’_

He manages to inflect it with blame.

‘You’re damn right thanks to me,’ Fell snaps. ‘And this is what I get for it.’

Crowley makes a garbled noise that Fell interprets somewhere between _well, you offered _and _I didn’t think about it like that. _He props his feet up on the stool, leaving Fell with nothing to do but perch on the arm of the chair with his dish of damp cotton balls.

The knuckles on the left hand aren’t nearly as bad as the right was last week. Either Crowley wasn’t hitting as hard, or he was punching something less solid than brick. It’s not hard to figure out which. He swipes the dried blood away, the movement tugging open some of the scabbed skin. Crowley grunts in complaint, and Fell murmurs ‘Sorry.’

‘You’re alright,’ Crowley’s voice comes out a purr. He hasn’t withdrawn his hand from Fell’s lap, turning it obediently this way and that while Fell tends to it. Fell is less generous with the iodine, since the wounds must be at least a day old. The knuckles only need one layer of gauze to protect them.

It takes Fell a moment to realise that behind the glasses and the compress, Crowley is watching him work. Fell makes no mention of it.

‘Just your hand and your face?’ Fell asks, wiping his hands clean. ‘Anywhere else?’

Crowley lifts the compress and looks down at himself. He wriggles a bit, and one of his joints makes a wet pop. ‘Nah. Nowhere visible, anyway.’

Fell has a complexion for blushing, he knows. He knows the heavy feeling in his cheeks. He knows Crowley notices, because a lazy smirk appears on Crowley’s face.

‘Honestly, there’s not much more I can do,’ Fell confesses. ‘No use cleaning this…’

He reaches without thinking, his thumb stopping at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley’s chin tilts upward, fitting into Fell’s grasp. Crowley is slinking upright in the armchair, bringing his face level with Fell’s, never moving so quickly that Fell need let go of his chin. As if Fell is pulling as much as Crowley is pushing. Crowley’s breath is faltering against the pad of Fell’s thumb. His mouth is open enough that Fell can see jagged teeth that give him such an exaggerated snarl—only he’s not snarling, now.

The cut in Crowley’s lip is almost black, shining and swollen like an overripe fruit. The heat of it seems impossible, as if it still burns as it must have when it first split open. Crowley, Fell suspects, will not taste like wine. He will taste like blood.

Fell leans in, and now there’s nothing for it because if he doesn’t kiss Crowley, he’ll overbalance.

He overbalances. Crowley catches him, ducking smoothly out of Fell’s way as he steers Fell to sit on the stool. Fell’s face is painfully flushed now, and he stares at the floor.

‘I’m sorry,’ Crowley says, almost too quietly to hear.

‘You _want_ to.’

Fell doesn’t mean to sound hurt. But he has spent _so long_ being _so careful_, a lifetime of waiting to be completely certain before acting on any interest that is not mutual.

‘Never said I didn’t,’ Crowley sounds sad. His bandaged fingers reach out, twitching in Fell’s direction. Fell looks at them.

‘Are you the sort where it doesn’t mean anything as long as we don’t kiss?’ Fell asks, failing to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Crowley sighs. ‘It always means something.’

Fell bites his lip, so hard it might split in sympathy.

‘I want to,’ Crowley repeats. ‘I want to.’

Fell takes a measured breath in, then out. Selfish: he’s being selfish. He looks at Crowley: his face is crumpled with regret.

‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ Fell suggests.

Crowley nods, and swallows. His jaw grinds, and he sits up straighter, bringing himself to face Fell properly.

‘There was a war,’ he says.

‘Korea?’ Fell asks, thrown off by the article: _a _war, not _the _war.

‘Before that.’

Fell nods. So he does mean _the _war, not _a _war.

‘I fought,’ Crowley says, then looks annoyed at himself for stating the obvious. But Fell nods, treating this information with the weight it deserves.

Crowley appears to be about Fell’s age. Old enough to enlist, as all good men did. Fell suspects that underneath it all, Crowley is a good man.

Fell is not a good man, he suspects.

‘You saw action?’ Fell prompts.

‘Ha,’ Crowley barks, some of his sarcasm returning. ‘I certainly _got_ action. And not the kind they approved of.’

The shift between grief and innuendo leaves Fell reeling. He recovers himself enough to say: ’I see.’

‘Mm,’ Crowley purses his lips, head swinging like he’s looking for the right words. Fell waits. Crowley makes a few noises, false starts, before he manages one word. ‘Consequences.’

Fell can put two and two together. ‘I’m sorry to have—‘

‘No, stop it,’ Crowley flaps a hand at him, scowling. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘I understand—‘

‘You don’t,’ Crowley tells him. ‘You really don’t, just don’t apologise, please.’

He’s never said _please _to Fell before.

‘Just...’ Crowley’s hand is grabbing for him now. ‘Would you just kiss me?’

Fell snorts, but Crowley is already pulling on his shirt, bringing their mouths crashing together. And it does taste like blood, it hurts where Crowley’s glasses are hitting Fell’s cheek, and Crowley’s knees twisting as he drags Fell onto the armchair and into his lap. Fell clings to Crowley’s face, pouring kisses into his mouth. Crowley groans, a half-strangled noise, and flicks his tongue at Fell’s. One hand is unbuttoning Fell’s shirt, the other looping around his waist to bring them closer. Fell straddles Crowley’s lap, a growl escaping him when Crowley nibbles on his lower lip. He feels Crowley smiling, then he nudges Crowley’s chin up with his thumbs to expose that long, slender neck. Fell mouths and licks, feeling how the tendons flex with pleasure under his tongue. Crowley’s throat vibrates with a moan when Fell sucks a tender patch of skin, never so hard as to leave a bruise—Crowley has enough of those. Fell nuzzles under his ear, keeping his thighs locked tight around Crowley’s so he can feel how it makes Crowley squirm. He draws one earlobe into his mouth and Crowley’s hips thrust into Fell’s. Both of them are hard, both of them gasping in surprise, surging into each other again for the mutual pressure. Fell ignores a clicking noise underneath him and then Crowley lets out a short yelp, almost bucking Fell off his lap.

_‘What—‘ _Crowley reaches beneath himself, twisting to find whatever’s distracting him.

‘Are you—‘ Fell starts to ask.

‘Ice!’ Crowley shouts. ‘It’s the ice, in the towel.’

A laugh bubbles out of Fell.

‘Oh, fuck me, it’s cold,’ Crowley tosses pieces of ice onto Fell’s floor. Both of them are laughing now, a little hopeless, looking at the damp towel that has killed the moment.

‘Couch?’ Fell suggests. ‘Or… bed?’

Crowley squirms, and Fell climbs off him.

‘Or a coffee,’ Fell backtracks. ‘I could make us…’

‘Couch?’ Crowley asks.

‘Couch,’ Fell agrees. ‘Couch is good. Dry.’

Crowley unfolds from the armchair, trying to dry damp patch on his shirt with a dry bit of his shirt.

‘Fresh towel,’ Fell realises. ‘Would that be…?’

Crowley looks around the room, weight shifting restlessly.

‘Yeah,’ he gives a curt nod.

‘You can sit,’ Fell says. ‘If you want.’

Crowley doesn’t sit. Fell opens his mouth to suggest another alternative, and Crowley grabs the inside of his elbow.

‘While you’re up,’ Crowley makes a strangled noise. ‘No. Just the towel.’

‘Are you sure?’ Fell takes Crowley’s wrist gently, until Crowley’s grip is no longer tight enough to hurt.

Crowley exhales heavily, chewing the inside of his lip.

‘Just suggest it,’ Fell murmurs. ‘What you’re thinking. We don’t have to do it.’

Crowley’s face looks pained, far more than it did when he’d almost broken his hand last week.

‘If, if you’d—‘ Crowley rambles when he’s nervous, Fell realises. ‘I need... need you to lock your door. You don’t lock your door. Lock it.’

‘Alright. I can do that,’ Fell nods firmly. ‘That’s easy.’

‘Don’t...’ Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. Fell stills, waiting for him to finish. Crowley speaks quickly, as if he wants the thought out of his head: ‘Don’t let them find us.’

The fear that Crowley says it with makes him sound oddly unlike himself, as if for a moment someone else was using his voice.

Fell wants to reassure him that there’s nobody. But sometimes the Dean drops by Fell’s office and takes a keen interest in his nonfiction shelves. Sometimes, men in sensible boots come asking about another professor, and Fell must truthfully tell them he’s had no contact with the man in years now. Fell knows how to feign unfamiliarity with certain neighbourhoods downtown, depending on who he’s with. Which ‘_them’_ Crowley is referring to doesn’t matter. Fell locks his door. When he returns to the lounge, Crowley is poking around the room, searching.

‘You don’t have a television, do you?’ he asks.

‘No, I never—‘

‘Good. Radio?’

‘In the kitchen…’ Fell inflects it with a question, but Crowley only grimaces. ‘I can—‘

‘—Shut the door—’

‘—unplug it?’ Fell suggests simultaneously.

Crowley rubs his hand over his mouth, then nods. Fell unplugs the radio, and closes the kitchen door behind him.

Crowley is on the couch, but without any of the ease he had in the armchair. His entire posture is drawn into the same question on Fell’s lips: _have I ruined it?_

Fell strides to him, getting on the couch and curling up close beside him. He puts the towel in Crowley’s hands and Crowley gingerly lifts his shirt, wiping himself dry. Fell reaches out, fingertips following the path of the towel. Even after the ice, Crowley’s skin is warm. Crowley shivers, but he doesn’t shy away. They both just sit, and breathe, as Fell touches him.

Fell asks: ‘Is this—?’

‘—yes,’ Crowley answers. He takes Fell’s hand, guiding it further under the shirt, up his waist to his chest. He arches into Fell’s touch, and Fell gasps. Crowley’s heart thumps under Fell’s palm. Then it’s Crowley crawling into Fell’s lap, draping his arms around Fell’s shoulders. The kiss is slower, more deliberate this time. There’s barely enough space between them for Fell to finish unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt, but he manages. When they break for air, Fell glances down to check there really aren’t any more bruises. Crowley’s chest rises and falls as Fell exposes one shoulder and places a kiss there.

It leaves a smudge of red on Crowley’s skin, and Fell blinks a moment before realising why. Crowley’s lip is freshly bleeding, split open when they kissed and staining Fell’s lips.

‘Oh,’ he whispers. ‘Does it hurt…?’

‘’m good,’ Crowley’s voice has turned to gravel.

Fell won’t realise until next time that Crowley’s answer wasn’t a no.

Crowley draws him into another kiss, his bandaged hand finding the nape of Fell’s neck. His fingers circle wisps of Fell’s hair, and his tongue drags along Fell’s. Fell moans and Crowley exhales sharply, writhing in Fell’s lap. He starts to fumble with Fell’s buttons, until Fell takes pity on him and does it himself. It doesn’t expose much, since his undershirt is still tucked in, but Crowley immediately runs his hands over Fell’s chest and belly, head tilted curiously. Fell flushes again at the attention, kissing Crowley to distract him. Crowley is happy to be distracted, licking and biting as much as he kisses. Fell bites back, catching Crowley’s lip, and Crowley makes a wonderfully helpless noise. He rocks forward in Fell’s lap, which shoves the rim of his glasses into Fell’s cheekbone. Fell grunts and Crowley hisses, both of them drawing apart.

‘May I…?’ he reaches up to remove the glasses, but Crowley shies away.

‘I’m sorry,’ Fell touches Crowley’s hair instead, flicking a particularly askew bit into shape. ‘I didn’t mean to overstep.’

‘Stop apologising,’ Crowley insists. He’s a little breathless. ‘It’s just. Flash blindness.’

Fell bites his lip, looking down instead of at his rather dim ceiling light.

‘Even like this,’ Crowley guesses his line of thought. ‘Another souvenir from the war.’

‘It’s fine,’ Fell traces a line around the bruise on Crowley’s cheekbone. ‘We don’t have to…’

‘I don’t mean to be like this,’ Crowley says, and it’s so horribly vulnerable that Fell touches a finger to his lips.

‘Leave them on,’ Fell says. ‘As long as you’re happy to kiss me.’

Crowley nods, nudging Fell’s finger out of the way to get his mouth on Fell’s.

Crowley doesn’t try to undress Fell any further: he gradually tumbles to one side so he’s sitting across Fell’s lap. When they stop to breathe, Fell’s lips are tingling. He rests his head on the back of the couch. Crowley hums softly, all his bony weight pressing into Fell’s side.

‘You’ve never served,’ Crowley murmurs. It’s not quite a question: it doesn’t have to be.

‘Conscientious objector,’ Fell says. ‘Not the religious kind.’

‘The sent-to-prison kind?’

‘Not yet.’

Crowley’s laugh is inaudible, but Fell feels him rocking. ‘Lucky.’

Crowley is fidgeting with the gauze on his hands. Fell grabs them and holds them firmly in his lap. Crowley nuzzles his shoulder as if that had been his plan all along.

‘I knew others,’ Fell says. ‘Who lied on their enlistment forms. Some got a dishonourable discharge—‘

‘Lucky,’ Crowley repeats.

‘—some said _fraternisation_ was overlooked,’ Fell recalls. ‘I suppose it depended on the unit.’

‘The unit, the captain, the fucking weather,’ Crowley grumbles. ‘The rules aren’t enforced until they are. Then they make an example of you.’

‘I lost friends,’ Fell says. ’The sent-to-prison kind. Some were _made examples. _Others, I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out what happened. After the war, it was book clubs where nobody gave names. They never stopped watching us.’

_They, _again. Neither of them are going to use the acronym: Fell has never been confident it was _them_ anyway.

_‘Book clubs_? Should I be worried?’ Crowley doesn’t sound worried.

‘I’m saying I know how to be cautious,’ Fell ignores the sarcasm: Crowley knows what kinds of books he means.

‘Good for you.’

Fell can’t tell if he’s sneering, or genuine. It probably doesn’t matter. He traces the bones in Crowley’s wrist, nosing Crowley’s scalp. His breath ruffles through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley’s weight feels heavier in his lap.

Fell tilts his head. There are green edges to the bruise on Crowley’s cheekbone. It fades near the temple into a mottled yellow, like ben-day dots up close. From this angle, Fell has a glimpse past the rim of Crowley’s glasses: a hint of long lashes and the deep blue core of the bruise. It follows the line of the lens: Crowley was wearing them when he was hit. Fell leans in, brushing his lips over the fragile skin. Crowley curls tighter, shoving his face into Fell’s neck. Fell feels a shiver run from Crowley through to him. Crowley places an answering kiss on Fell’s throat. Fell wills his pulse not to quicken, unsuccessfully. Crowley’s hands twitch in Fell’s. They stay a moment, and a moment longer than that.

The last of the daylight is gone from between the curtains. Neither of them have napped, but it’s a close thing. Fell moves a little: his leg is getting numb under Crowley’s.

‘Would you consider staying for dinner?’ Fell asks.

Crowley doesn’t answer right away: he hums, squirming and stretching in Fell’s lap. Then he sighs, unfolding himself to look up at Fell’s face. He looks wistful, maybe even miserable. So Fell is braced for it: a rejection, if a reluctant one.

‘I should go,’ Crowley sighs. ‘Water my plants.’

Fell wouldn’t have asked for an excuse, let alone one as flimsy as that. ‘Your _plants...?’_

‘Persnickety things,’ Crowley grumbles. ‘They wilt if they don’t get enough attention.’

Fell chooses not to take that as a personal remark.

‘Really,’ Crowley senses his cynicism and doubles down. ‘You should see them.’

‘I would like that,’ Fell says softly. ‘Very much.’

If Crowley hadn’t meant the invitation to be genuine, he hides it well.

‘Well,’ he starts the convoluted and pointy process of getting up from Fell’s lap. ‘Thanks, for the...’

He gestures at his face. His lip looks worse than it did before, and the black eye unchanged. Still, the injuries on his left hand are dressed, as Crowley demonstrates by wiggling his fingers.

‘Glad to help,’ Fell musters a smile. He gets up, and this time Crowley leads the way to the door. He stops at the radio, seeming surprised that Fell really did unplug it. Thenhe gets his coat, unlocking the front door.

‘Do take care,’ Fell tells him. ‘Please, Crowley.’

Crowley gives him a lopsided smile. He darts in, quick like a snake striking, and kisses Fell’s cheek. Then he’s gone, again.

Fell leaves the radio unplugged.


	5. Chapter 5

Fell always expects a knock on his door. Even an hour after midnight on Sunday, when he’s sitting on top of the covers and reading, he tells himself not to startle. He marks his page and puts on a housecoat that could pass for a cardigan. No matter how hard they’re hammering on the wood, if it’s this time of night, they can wait a little longer. Fell sighs, not bothering to turn on the lights. He’d rather the intruders be surprised, even if only for a moment.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door as quickly as he can.

Crowley collapses into his kitchen.

‘What in—‘ Fell bends down, but Crowley is already dragging himself upright.

‘Hi,’ Crowley grunts, leaning on the counter to an alarming degree. ‘Didn’t mean to do that.’

‘I should hope...’ Fell breathes. ‘What are you _doing_ here?’

Crowley grimaces, making Fell flinch at the sight. His teeth are pink with blood. ‘I owed you a drink.’

He produces a bottle from his jacket, blessedly unscathed by the fall and whatever preceded it. It’s very fine bourbon, but Fell hisses when he sees the hand offering it. Crowley’s bleeding from what must be every knuckle. One of his fingers is definitely broken this time. Tuesday’s bruise has spread in an ugly corona around the side of his face. There’s a smear of blood under his nose and a fresh graze on his jaw that’s starting to swell. His breathing is ragged, and shallow. All his weight is on one leg, and he’s hunched over.

‘Christ,’ Fell breathes. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

Crowley makes a rude face and gestures vaguely at the unanswerability of the question.

‘I mean _right now,’_ Fell amends, and when Crowley continues to scowl: ‘Physically.’

‘I didn’t make a list,’ Crowley whines.

Fell throws his hands up, stomping to the bathroom. ‘Fine!’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘Start one!’

Crowley shuffles into the bathroom behind him. Fell jerks his head, and Crowley sits obediently on the edge of the bath. Fell lays out his supplies on the washstand.

Fell tips Crowley’s chin up with his fingers. It exaggerates the gaunt line of his jaw. He has to chew the inside of his lip to stop himself getting distracted by the way Crowley’s throat bobs when he swallows. Fell swabs the graze quickly, then wipes it with iodine. This close, Crowley can’t hide the whimper when it stings. Fell glances as if he can see the sound fall from Crowley’s lips. The split is still there, not even a week old.

‘Why does this happen so often?’ Fell asks, guiding Crowley’s face to one side then the other. ‘Is there someone...?’

‘No,’ Crowley shakes his head slightly, so Fell’s fingertips stay in contact with his skin. ‘It’s nothing like that.’

‘What is it like?’ Fell touches his cheek. Crowley leans into it.

‘Nose for trouble?’ Crowley grins.

‘Clearly,’ Fell drawls, and starts wiping up the blood caked around his nostrils. ‘Unless you’ve broken it.’

‘Nah,’ Crowley squirms, taking the cotton ball to do it himself. ‘It just looks like that.’

‘Well, I’m glad it does,’ Fell ducks his head as he says it.

‘Flatterer,’ Crowley says, the effect rather ruined by the way he’s shoving a bloodied cotton ball up his nostril. Fell snorts.

When Crowley is finished, Fell takes his hands. The skin is shiny and pink around the older cuts, suggesting they were starting to heal over before Crowley broke them open again. Fell sighs, trying not to tear any scabs still in place. Blood has sunk into the fine lines of Crowley’s skin, leaving a pattern like shattered glass. Fell suspects it’s not all Crowley’s blood. He gets a cloth to clean it properly.

Crowley watches him work, his knee bumping against Fell’s. ‘Did I wake you?’ he murmurs.

‘No,’ Fell smiles. ‘But you got me out of bed.’

‘Could I get you back into it?’ Crowley asks, with a thread of uncertainty.

Fell glances up at the ceiling, trying to hide the warmth that suffuses him. It’s not easy when he’s standing between Crowley’s thighs. ‘Let’s see to this first, shall we?’

The broken finger needs taping. Fell catches himself thinking he ought to expand his first aid kit to better suit Crowley’s needs, then shakes his head at the ridiculousness of it.

‘I don’t have the right kind of tape,’ Fell explains. ‘But we ought to splint this.’

‘Whatever you’ve got is fine,’ Crowley flexes the joint, wincing when he finds its limits. The break looks clean, at least, bent rather than crushed.

Fell’s desk is an eternal mess. He rummages for the tape he uses to mend books, and a wooden ruler, bringing them back to the bathroom. He can feel Crowley’s eyes on him as he braces the ruler over the end of the desk and snaps it into two shorter pieces. He wraps the splintered ends in tape.

‘While you’re up,’ Crowley says. ‘Have you got a needle and thread?’

He asks so tentatively that Fell takes a moment to realise what for. _‘No,’_ he glares at Crowley, appalled.

‘Confirmed bachelor like you?’ Crowley offers a half-hearted grin. ‘Who darns your tweed?’

‘For _fuck’s_ sake, Crowley,’ Fell mutters, even as he’s going to the cupboard to dig out his rudimentary sewing kit. He calls out: ‘I hope you have a _marvellous_ excuse for not going to the hospital.’

‘Well…’ Crowley trails off with a croak as he returns.

‘I didn’t say I wanted to hear it,’ Fell snaps, perhaps a little sharper than he means to. ‘Just… show me, will you?’

Crowley starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Fell realises the dark fabric has been obscuring the damp, bloodied patch. He opens the shirt to expose a short gash to the side of Crowley’s waist.

‘What was this? A knife?’ Fell asks, kicking the bathmat beneath Crowley and kneeling down to get a better look.

‘Yeah,’ Crowley pokes at the skin, and Fell tuts him. ‘Barely got me.’

‘Ever the optimist,’ Fell drawls. Crowley chuckles, hissing when it pulls on the wound.

At least the bleeding has mostly stopped: Fell sets about cleaning it up. Crowley squirms when Fell disinfects the wound, but he stills again before Fell can scold him.

‘It’s supposed to be a curved needle, isn’t it?’ Fell looks at his limited selection like it’s going to change.

Crowley makes an unintelligible noise that indicates he’s not fussed. Fell selects the biggest needle he can find, and starts unspooling black thread. Crowley twists, reaching into his back pocket and producing a zippo lighter. He takes the needle from Fell and runs it through the flame.

‘Thank you,’ Fell takes the needle back and threads it. ‘Ready?’

‘Mm,’ Crowley nods. ‘I can, if you’re squeamish.’

‘I’m not,’ Fell informs him. ’Besides, you’ve got a broken finger.’

Crowley sighs though his teeth and slouches to one side so Fell can reach his waist. ‘Done this before?’

‘No,’ Fell says, with a bit of pride.

‘It’s tougher than it looks,’ Crowley explains. ‘Skin.’

’Understood,’ Fell doesn’t look up, aligning the needle at the edge of the wound.

Crowley hisses as the needle punches through. His breathing is light: he’s trying to keep still. Fell steadies the skin with his fingers, pulling through and drawing the broken flesh back together. He winces at the way the thread tugs through.

‘Do I tie each one off?’ he asks.

‘Don’t bother,’ Crowley says. When Fell shoots a glare at him, he amends: ‘Okay, bother.’

It’s slow work. The needle gets blood on it and Fell has to wipe everything clean before starting again. Crowley keeps the scissors nearby to snip the excess. He doesn’t complain, even when Fell pulls the thread too far and needs to feed it back. Fell places the stitches as far apart as he dares: knowing Crowley, he expects some will get torn before it’s fully healed.

‘You’ll have a scar,’ Fell realises, tying off the last stitch.

‘I like souvenirs,’ Crowley touches the corner of Fell’s mouth as it turns downwards. Fell takes his hand, putting a kiss on the palm.

‘You should wash,’ Fell suggests. ‘Get properly clean before we dress that.’

‘Yeah,’ Crowley nods, with badly-concealed surprise. He finishes removing his shirt, then starts on his belt buckle. Fell realises how close his face is to Crowley’s crotch, and shuffles back. He mumbles about getting a clean towel while Crowley finishes stripping. Crowley turns on the water, leaning away from the first blast of cold.

‘I’ll be, um,’ Fell gestures at the door. ‘Spare clothes.’

‘Yep,’ Crowley nods, showing no intention of removing his glasses.

‘Right,’ Fell says, more to himself than anything. He stops staring at line of Crowley’s spine. There are new bruises starting to bloom on his back. Fell is not looking at the bruises. He’s leaving Crowley to it.

It’s a good thing, Fell supposes, that he got such a thorough look at Crowley. Even digging to the bottom of his closet, Fell knows that his slimmest set of pyjamas will hang from Crowley’s slender waist. Crowley’s ankles will be on display like a beatnik’s. None of Fell’s shirts will do Crowley any favours, but they’ll stay on.

There’s a knock on his doorframe, and Fell realises the shower must have stopped. Crowley is leaning there, towel tucked around his hips. He’s not even dripping.

‘Want me to…?’ Crowley is holding the tape, gauze, and bits of ruler.

‘Let me,’ Fell beckons him over, taking off his housecoat.

He sits on the bed so Crowley’s new sutures are closer to eye level. The bleeding has stopped, and the wound hasn’t puckered while being washed. Fell cuts up a strip of gauze and tapes it to Crowley’s belly. The tape will probably bring a lot of hair with it when removed, but it can be assumed that’s part of the experience for Crowley.

Crowley’s weight shifts from foot to foot, but he doesn’t speak. Fell could wrap his arms around Crowley’s hips, press his face into the fluff trailing down the centre of Crowley’s torso. It aches how much he wants to just breathe it in and hold it inside himself: Crowley, clean and safe.

But there is one thing left to do. ‘Give me your hand.’

Crowley offers the right, palm up, close to Fell’s face.

‘The broken one,’ Fell tuts. He glances up, and Crowley’s smiling wryly back at him.

Fell splints the little finger to the ring finger using the wooden ruler, and wraps it all gently in tape. The result looks ridiculous, but it will suffice.

Crowley examines the result, testing his flexibility in the splint. He casts a quick look around the room. Fell wonders what he notices: the Baldwin novel on the bedside, the heavy curtains, tomorrow’s suit laid neatly on a chair, the locks on each drawer of the bureau.

Crowley reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Fell’s forehead.

‘Said I’d get you into bed, didn’t I?’ Crowley smiles.

‘Asked,’ Fell corrects him. ‘You asked. Then you needed stitches.’

Crowley snorts, conceding. ‘Thank you for those. You’re an angel.’

Fell shakes his head, laughing to himself. Crowley raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘Someone else used to call me that, once.’

‘Old flame?’ Crowley moves to sit beside Fell on the bed.

‘Mm,’ Fell agrees. He stares at his lap, rather than look at how little of Crowley is covered by the towel. ‘From the book club. I never knew his name.’

Fell realises then, with a cold feeling in his stomach, that he can no longer recall the man’s face.

He looks back at Crowley. ‘A long time ago.’

Crowley leans back, weight on the heels of his hands. Fell turns so they’re still facing, so he’s arched over Crowley. Crowley’s thighs sprawl, and the towel comes dangerously close to slipping off his lap.

There is nothing for it but to kiss him. So Fell kisses him.

Crowley angles up to meet him, and his glasses collide with Fell’s nose. Crowley fumbles to right them, and Fell shakes his head before he can apologise.

‘I’m sorry, just, I have to ask,’ Fell says. ‘Did you _shower _with your glasses on?’

‘Nnhh—well,’ Crowley’s mouth forms a straight line. ‘Easier to see.’

‘Right, of course,’ Fell says. Crowley’s fingers have latched onto his shirt in a white-knuckled grip. Fell stays where Crowley holds him, searching Crowley’s face. ‘You really ought to rest…’

‘D’you feel like resting?’ Crowley’s nose is an inch from his own.

Fell shakes his head. It would be so easy to kiss him again. Crowley is still tugging gently on Fell’s shirt, pulling him closer. Fell’s breath is coming short, and he can smell his soap on Crowley’s skin.

‘You have a knife wound,’ Fell protests.

‘Why d’you think I came here?’ Crowley asks.

That makes Fell sit up. Crowley sighs in frustration, thumping his head back against the mattress.

‘You don’t need to be injured to come here,’ Fell scowls at him. ‘We could just…’

‘What? Go for a picnic?’ Crowley raises an eyebrow.

‘If you want,’ Fell answers tartly. ‘Or you could just _visit.’_

‘I don’t do this for the excuse to see you,’ Crowley bares his teeth.

‘So why _do_ you do this?’ Fell touches Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley utters a noise, staring up at the ceiling.

‘I’m sorry,’ Fell steers Crowley back to looking at him. ‘I know it’s…’

‘No,’ Crowley insists. ‘Just… you deserve—I—let me.’

Fell lies down beside Crowley, so they’re side by side, staring at the ceiling. Crowley wrings his hands, checking the splint. He leans toward Fell like he’s going to hide his face and forget about this conversation—Fell’s not sure he’d mind, if that happened. But he stammers out a string of uncertain sounds, so Fell turns his head to look at him. Then, Crowley starts to talk.

‘I don’t know how to feel things properly. It’s like there are things missing from me, but I can’t remember what they are. And this is just, it’s the only thing. It doesn’t fix it and it doesn’t even make it go away, but... do you ever feel like there’s a word on the tip of your tongue? And, and maybe you didn’t just forget it but someone _took_ that word?’

‘Yes,’ Fell whispers.

Crowley double-takes, startled by the answer. But Fell holds his gaze, so close he can see himself mirrored in the black lenses. It’s the truth.

‘And when I’m here, it’s like…’ Crowley shakes his head, face half buried in the duvet. ‘I don’t know. I don’t _know.’_

‘Alright,’ Fell says. ‘I don’t know either. But maybe… if you stayed. We might find out.’

Crowley nods, swallowing. His face is drawn into a frown, like he’s reassuring himself. ‘What if it’s worse? Knowing?’ he asks.

Fell smiles weakly, shrugging. ‘What if it isn’t?’

Crowley’s mouth crashes into his. He pulls Fell until their chests are flush together, arms weaving around Fell’s body. Fell holds Crowley’s face, his other hand twisting into Crowley’s hair. Crowley moans into his mouth. His glasses are still in the way but Fell ignores them, kissing Crowley as thoroughly as he can. His tongue drags against Crowley’s and Crowley whines, leg hooking around Fell’s hip. The towel is really, properly gone now, and Crowley is naked, pressed against him. His cock twitches beside Fell’s thigh and Fell grinds against it. Crowley whimpers in a most gratifying way.

Fell moves from holding Crowley’s face to his shoulder, feeling the muscle bunching under the skin as Crowley undulates against him, seeking friction. Then the sinewy muscle of Crowley’s upper arm, then, the hardening peak of Crowley’s nipple hidden in a nest of hair. Fell pinches and Crowley makes a strangled sound, teeth sinking into Fell’s lip. Fell can’t help but shudder.

Crowley starts unbuttoning Fell’s shirt, frantic and fumbling like the inch of space between them is an unbearable distance. Fell wrestles himself free of his shirt, only for Crowley to wrap back around him like a vine. Fell clings to him, to every lithe and sinuous piece of Crowley he can find. He’s so _long_—yes, all of him—and the hand that isn’t splinted is snaking down to cup Fell’s groin and squeeze.

Fell groans.

‘Want you,’ Crowley murmurs. ‘Want _this.’_

He hisses the last word, emphasising by driving his palm down. Fell nods, clutching Crowley’s arm. Crowley seems to think he can remove Fell’s pyjama pants using his heels. When that doesn’t work, he shuffles down the bed, mouthing Fell’s chest and belly as he goes. Fell’s skin is peppered with kisses and bites, rushed like Crowley can’t choose where to put his mouth. But once he gets Fell’s pyjamas off—then he commits his mouth to Fell’s cock. He starts with wet, open-mouthed kisses, slicking the skin and learning the taste. Fell is hard, sensitised by the ferocity of Crowley’s attention. His hand hovers near Crowley’s cheek, wanting to guide Crowley to wrap his lips around properly and swallow. His hips twitch and Crowley grins, tongue flicking at the slit and making Fell shudder. He takes Fell in his mouth for an instant, then withdraws, head darting in and away with infuriating speed. Fell grunts in frustration and grabs Crowley’s hair. He realises then that this was Crowley’s plan, because Crowley growls and guides Fell’s cock into his mouth, a humming warmth and pressure just this side of painful.

Crowley’s injured hand curls around the root and Fell has to grab Crowley’s wrist, pulling it away so it doesn’t get jostled. Crowley resists, but not enough to break Fell’s grasp. Judging by the hitch in Crowley’s breathing, he’s enjoying the challenge. He sucks Fell’s cock with twisting, relentless motion, tongue caressing the underside. A gasp spills from Fell’s lips, and he bucks into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley chokes slightly but doesn’t pull off, instead tilting back to suckle the head, lips wet and obscenely red around Fell’s cock.

‘Wait, wait, I’m—‘ Fell bleats out a warning. Crowley’s mouth slips off, until it’s just his hot breath on Fell’s flushed cock. His glasses are askew.

‘Fuck me,’ Crowley says, mouth ghosting over Fell’s cock as he speaks. Fell almost comes all over his face, which would rather spoil the moment. He swallows, and nods.

Crowley wastes no time shifting back up, planting a salty-bitter kiss on Fell’s mouth before rolling over. His back moulds to Fell’s front, like jigsaw pieces snug together. Every shift of sinew can be felt through the skin, restless shifting and bunching like something is trapped inside Crowley. Fell kisses the nape of his neck, hand gliding down Crowley’s side—skipping over the bandaging—to settle him. His fingers fit in the nook of Crowley’s hip, and Fell tugs him backwards, so his cock is pressed to the crease of Crowley’s ass. Crowley writhes and whimpers, grabbing Fell’s hand and guiding it so Fell can feel how hard he is. Fell strokes him a few times, slicking from the head down the shaft, feeling the thrum of Crowley groaning. It slaps against his belly when Fell releases him, and Fell hides a smile against Crowley’s spine. He squeezes Crowley’s arm before leaning away, fumbling for a jar in the bedside drawer. Crowley cranes his neck to watch where Fell’s gone, and Fell catches a glimpse of eyelashes before Crowley nestles back against him.

He considers asking _are you sure, _worried that Crowley’s incessant wriggling will tear the stitches. But Crowley will probably wriggle _more _incessantly if he’s not fucked.

He slicks his fingers while Crowley arches, raising one thigh to give Fell space. Fell slips between his cheeks, tracing the delicate skin. He circles Crowley’s rim, thrilling at how Crowley shivers and rolls his hips for more. Fell waits until the moment Crowley inhales, chest filling with an imminent demand, before slipping inside.

The air punches back out of Crowley and he shoves himself back until Fell’s buried to the last knuckle. Fell explores carefully, patiently, finding what makes Crowley whine and what makes him sigh.

His fingers are thicker than Crowley’s: Fell knows this, so he’s ready for Crowley’s gasp when he nudges the second in. He takes his time twisting and stretching, getting Crowley adjusted to it. When Crowley starts to thrust back, seeking more, Fell slows down deliberately until Crowley unleashes a choked groan.

‘G—hh—would you—juh—‘ Crowley stutters, and Fell grins. Crowley must feel the movement of Fell’s mouth on Crowley’s shoulders, because he shrugs irritably. ‘Come _on.’_

‘Like this?’ Fell rubs deliberately over the tenderest spot he can find, and Crowley lets out a startlingly loud sound. His arm twists back to grab a fistful of Fell’s hair. He keeps pulling until Fell adds another finger, until Fell can thrust smoothly into him with three.

‘I’m ready,’ Crowley gasps. Shudders are running up his spine in erratic, undulating patterns.

‘You’re not,’ Fell kisses his shoulder. ‘And I’d thank you not to assume I don’t know my own girth.’

Crowley makes a sulky noise, accompanied by a sulky wriggle.

‘Yes, I know, you’re a reckless bastard,’ Fell teases.

‘Like it when it hurts,’ Crowley says hoarsely.

‘There’s better ways to hurt,’ Fell promises, nipping Crowley’s skin. The sulky wriggle becomes a delighted shiver. Fell withdraws his hand until he’s barely inside Crowley, and tucks his pinkie in so he can penetrate Crowley with four fingers. His thumb is anchored at the cleft of Crowley’s ass, stroking as Crowley takes him deeper. He’s so tight around Fell’s knuckles that the joints almost creak, so Fell keeps still, letting Crowley shudder and constrict, doing most of the work himself. Only once Crowley has relaxed enough that Fell can rotate his wrist a little does a small _‘oof’ _escape him.

‘Alright?’ Fell asks, moving gently but not stopping. Crowley nods, drawing a deep breath. His chest rises with it, and when he exhales, the tension seeps out of him, welcoming Fell’s intrusion.

‘I think you’re ready now,’ Fell informs him. Crowley lets out a reedy, hopeful whine, punctuated by Fell removing his hand.

Fell slicks himself generously, trying to dodge Crowley’s demanding flurry of limbs protesting to the brief absence of Fell inside him. Rather than reassure him verbally, Fell guides Crowley’s thighs apart and thrusts into him. Neither of them breathe for a moment. Crowley is tight, blinding heat. Fell’s not sure he _can _move, the way Crowley is clamping down on him, but he withdraws a little before sinking as deep as he can.

This time, Crowley has the forethought to stifle his moan with his hand. The next thrust is more Crowley’s than Fell’s, his hips bouncing forward then back, the bones rather sharp when his ass collides with Fell’s hips.

Crowley sets the pace while Fell controls the depth, and the angle. His rocking is shallow, keeping them close together: interlocked, embracing as they fuck. His hand, still slippery, reaches around to stroke Crowley’s cock. It’s hot, and solid, and as long as the rest of him: Fell thinks he’d like to be fucked back, someday. His grip is firm and fast, so Crowley is trapped between Fell’s cock and his hand. Fell doesn’t try any clever tricks or twists. He just makes sure Crowley is touched, and held, both of them pressed together flushed and warm, so the smell of their sweat mingles as the tension builds between them. Fell’s face is shoved into Crowley’s back. He feels ribs shifting under the skin, the knobs of Crowley’s spine against his cheek. Fell kisses the place behind Crowley’s heart, or where he guesses that might be. Crowley squirms, and Fell digs an arm underneath Crowley’s body, so he can rest his hand on Crowley’s belly and pull him closer. Crowley’s splinted fingers rest atop Fell’s, securing him there. Fell splays his palm, exploring the soft fuzz around Fell’s navel, feeling his muscles constrict and flutter with shallow breaths. Crowley seems eager to turn himself inside out trying to cling to Fell, even while Fell is nestled snug behind him.

Fell places a reassuring kiss on Crowley’s back. He tries to keep his movements measured, but inside Crowley is a wringing, desperate pressure. It’s impossible to resist, to keep from being consumed by it. Fell realises his nails are digging into Crowley’s hip, other hand getting faster and tighter around Crowley’s cock. He gasps, his breath damp and feverish against Crowley’s skin. Crowley’s voice is a string of broken whines and wordless pleading. 

Fell might be pleading, too.

Crowley’s stitches are directly under Fell’s forearm, a rough texture always threatening to catch. They are straining as Crowley undulates, and Fell cannot bring himself to be cautious about it. It’s reckless: all of this has been reckless, from the moment it began.

Any promise that Fell might be the cautious one, the quiet one, the measured one—is broken. He sinks into Crowley with the bruising intensity Crowley begged for, unable to hold back. Crowley is shuddering relentlessly, slippery with sweat, his voice hoarse and high. His cock pulses in Fell’s hand and spills. The convulsions and constrictions bring Fell right to the edge. Then he falls headlong into it, teeth sinking into the meat of Crowley’s shoulder as he comes. They are a slick, gasping tangle of limbs and bruises.

Fell’s cock slides out of Crowley as it softens. Crowley grunts in disappointment, dealing with the loss by rolling bodily on top of Fell. As bird-boned as he is, Fell still grouses in startled discomfort. He shoves Crowley’s many elbows off him, fumbling for Crowley’s discarded towel. It’s still damp enough from the shower that Fell can make a decent effort of cleaning them both up, despite Crowley’s needling protests.

Fell apologises with a kiss: only afterward does he notice that Crowley’s glasses must have fallen off at some point while they were fucking. Crowley retrieves them, but instead of putting them back on, he folds them up and sets them on the bedside.

His eyes are darker than Fell expected, a rich chocolate brown. Crowley’s nose scrunches up as he squints, a playful eyebrow raised. He blocks the light with one hand and smiles at Fell. Fell takes the hint, getting up and flicking the lights off.

When he returns to the bed, Crowley has burrowed under the covers. He grabs at Fell and pulls him impatiently into the blankets.

‘I thought flash blindness faded,’ Fell comments, taking Crowley’s left hand and placing it carefully over his shoulder where it won’t be jostled.

‘People have been telling me that for twenty years,’ Crowley says.

‘Does it interfere with your work?’ Fell asks. He traces the hollow of Crowley’s cheek, feeling it pull tight when Crowley grins.

‘People have been asking me that for twenty years.’

Crowley turns to kiss Fell’s palm. Then he sighs. Fell thinks Crowley is drifting to sleep, but then he speaks.

‘_The radiance of a thousand suns_, he said. I’ve seen a thousand suns, in my line of work. None of them ever looked like that.’

‘You saw it?’

Crowley doesn’t answer yes or no. Instead, he says: ‘I thought: this is how it’s going to end.’

Fell never thought anything so clear as that, when he learned of the bomb. Only two instincts: _run,_ and _hide._

‘Never seen anything quite the same, since,’ Crowley murmurs. ‘It’s worse around bright things. Like you.’

_‘Me?_ What’s bright about me?’

‘You know,’ he nods: Fell feels the pillow move. ‘Your hair.’

‘Oh,’ Fell frowns. His hair is a sandy-grey. ‘I suppose it was when I was... younger?’

Crowley hums like he agrees, nestling closer to Fell. Fell ends up tucked under his chin, nose against his adam’s apple, cheek resting on his collarbone. Crowley seems to grow heavier as he settles, one ankle hooking around Fell’s.

‘You did ask me,’ Crowley mumbles, slow and dull with sleep.

‘What?’ Fell nuzzles into Crowley's neck, trying to stave off the exhaustion.

‘When you picked it. Fell. If I liked it.’

Fell frowns, trying to make sense of it. ‘Hmm?’

But Crowley answers with a snore. Fell draws him closer, kissing his shoulder. He’s already forgetting the thread of the conversation.

Fell wakes sometime in the night to the sound of his watch ticking. The headlights of a car pass by outside the window. Rain begins to patter on the roof.

It won’t be long, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's really over! But I would _love_ to talk about this story more in the comments: I left a lot of details out of the narrative itself, because I wanted to know what readers would bring to fill in the gaps.


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